


Making It Count

by petrodactyl352



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Domestic Fluff, First Kisses, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, They're both so oblivious, Unrequited Love, but not really, flangst, idiots to lovers, morosexual john, morosexual johnlock because thats how we roll, morosexual sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26215273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrodactyl352/pseuds/petrodactyl352
Summary: He unfolds the memory again, his own little mind palace—or his mind shack, really if he’s being honest—where every single room is occupied by Sherlock Holmes sitting on every single bed, long legs crossed one over the other and leaning back just so, dark curls in disarray with his fingers tented beneath his chin, reading John like a book with those colorless blue eyes darting all over him. He always takes up all the space in a room, and he does the same in John’s head. It’s easy to remember it, too easy.[Or, five times John and Sherlock kiss and the one time they’re both honest about it.]
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 116





	Making It Count

**Author's Note:**

> rewatched the show, fell in love with these two's dynamic all over again. my inner ninth grader is having the time of her LIFE.

The first time John Watson and Sherlock Holmes kissed, he isn’t sure if _he_ had kissed Sherlock, or if Sherlock had kissed _him._

He also isn’t sure exactly how it had happened. It’s a memory he folds and unfolds so frequently in his head that it’s become worn at the edges, frayed and creased and slightly blurred. He doesn’t quite remember—well, he does _remember_ ; kissing Sherlock Holmes isn’t exactly something he’d be hard-pressed to forget—but while he remembers the kiss (and vividly at that), he doesn’t really recall what had led up to it. Or, rather, he does remember what had led up to it, but not the precious few seconds that had come before it. 

He unfolds the memory again, his own little mind palace—or his mind shack, really if he’s being honest—where every single room is occupied by Sherlock Holmes sitting on every single bed, long legs crossed one over the other and leaning back just so, dark curls in disarray with his fingers tented beneath his chin, reading John like a book with those colorless blue eyes darting all over him. He always takes up all the space in a room, and he does the same in John’s head. It’s easy to remember it, too easy.

And it wasn’t the last time it had happened, either. He thinks about those times, too. 

He wonders if Sherlock knows what he’s thinking about when he thinks about them.

He hopes not. 

Or maybe he does. 

That way, things would be much, much easier.

That way, maybe he won’t have to say it out loud.

**1.**

They’re chasing someone.

It’s one of those cases, those small stupid ones Sherlock takes just to alleviate the boredom, to keep the balance, to oil the machine that sits in his head instead of a brain. He barely remembered it later, and he’d neglected to whittle it down to just the important bits whilst also adding several layers of marketable bullshit and plaster it out onto his blog for the world to see, mostly because for the life of him he just can’t remember how it had happened.

The kiss, not the case. 

He remembers the alleyway where they’d been staking out, remembers that it had been a tight fit. Remembers feeling the cold of the brick wall pressing against his back and the flushed heat of Sherlock’s body pressing against his front, his long slender elegant calf-length dark designer-coated form like a live wire thrumming with life and heat and dear God, it really had been a small little nook and there had been an awful lot of Sherlock in that alley.

He doesn’t say anything, ignoring John’s muttering (“We can’t let people see, they’ll definitely talk, this is awfully small Sherlock, people will talk…”) and folding himself into the tight space, yanking John in behind him for good measure. There’s a brief bit of shimmying and some swearing and light hands glancing on shoulders, and there’s definitely a bony elbow in John’s ribs at one point, but they settle in before long. And then all there’s left to do is wait. 

_This_ bit he remembers, and clearly. The angle is awkward, and what with their height difference and how cramped that alleyway is it’s all the more so; Sherlock’s long-fingered hand is hovering just shy of John’s hip, his shoulder tucked into the crook of his neck. John’s face is level directly with the gap between Sherlock’s coat, scarf and shirt, exposing the tiniest bit of pale, unmarked, untanned skin, and every time John exhales Sherlock gives the barest, slightest of shivers. 

They stay like that—Sherlock’s fingers grazing John’s hip and John’s breath tickling Sherlock’s neck, not speaking—for what feels like hours and seconds all at once. It’s awkward as hell, but it’s _Sherlock_. And being this close to him physically, for a prolonged period of time, is making all sorts of odd, funny thoughts run through his head, so quickly that he doesn’t even know why they’re making blood rise in a hot flood to his face. 

“Stop that.”

He looks up reflexively, which is a bad idea—the movement effectively presses his face to the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his nose smushing against that one bit of exposed throat. He inhales almost involuntarily, his eyes drifting shut as he does; sweat, that sharp, familiar cologne that shrouds the flat and—is that cigarette smoke?

He jerks back—another bad idea. He loses balance, all his weight rushing to the balls of his feet as he stumbles and tries to right himself. It only makes him stumble more, and he’s just about to topple when he feels a pair of firm, familiar hands steady him, one on his shoulder and that one that had been lingering at his hip finally closing the distance and coming to rest there, fingers gripping tight to keep him anchored. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, and Sherlock nods, impassive as ever. He lets go of John as he stands up straight, glad that it’s too dark in the alley for Sherlock to see his blush. “Stop what, by the way?”

“You were fidgeting,” Sherlock says, not looking at him, his eyes fixed instead on a point somewhere above John’s left shoulder. “It was constant—you were shifting, tapping your foot, looking around, blinking—”

“— _blinking_ —?” 

“—and you were drumming your fingertips on the wall, it does tend to make noise, noise that will most certainly give us away.” He looks down his nose at John as he so often does, eyebrows rising. “If I’m not mistaken the whole point of this operation is to remain undetected and discreet, and not to be seen, heard or noticed, something that will be quite impossible to manage if you continue to wriggle like a worm on a hook in addition to breathing so loudly I’m sure Mrs. Hudson can hear you.”

John attempts valiantly to come up with a smart-arse retort. 

“…Sorry,” he mumbles finally. 

Sherlock says nothing.

And they keep waiting.

He’s been staring listlessly at a crack in the wall behind Sherlock’s shoulder for what feels like ages when the back door of the club they’d been waiting by creaks open, pulsating neon light spilling down in a neat slice onto the pavement below, widening as the door opens. Trance music blasts out into the still night, each quick beat in sync with his hammering pulse. Sherlock stiffens against John, his chest pressing to his as he inhales sharply. The movement makes him hyperaware of the gun in his inside pocket, the metal digging into his ribs. 

“This is our man,” Sherlock breathes, so softly John barely hears it even though Sherlock’s lips are hovering just at his ear. 

“Sure?” he breathes back, peering around the wall at the shadowy shape that grows steadily clearer as the club door clangs shut with a loud click. The music cuts off abruptly, and somehow the silence it leaves behind is louder. 

He hears a furtive whisper, hears paper rustling as the man clearly counts a roll of cash, muttering under his breath. His nervous mumbling is punctuated by loud, periodic sniffs and skittering footsteps, as if he’s not quite sure if he’s safe where he is. 

Sherlock gives the barest of nods, and John is just about to ask him what they should do (they hadn’t exactly had a plan, but in their defense they hadn’t thought this far ahead) when he feels a hand creep along his chest and beneath his jacket, making him jump. _“Sherlock,”_ he hisses, indignant and startled and maybe even a little flustered—all right, a lot flustered—but he ignores John, fingers wrapping decidedly around the gun in his pocket. 

“Sherlock, wait,” he hisses again, but Sherlock doesn’t reply, drawing the gun out of John’s pocket and lifting it, tucking his arm against his chest as he spins neatly around the corner of the alleyway and points it directly at the man still hovering there. John swears under his breath and turns out of the alleyway after Sherlock, hearing the soft _snick_ of the gun cocking as he does. He steps into place beside him just as Sherlock speaks. 

“That’s an awful lot of money for just a chucker-out to make every week, don’t you think?”

The man jumps, dropping the roll of cash as he looks up at the two of them standing there, Sherlock still pointing the gun at him. His eyes dart to them, then the cash on the ground. His eyes are wide, cornered. 

“Who’re you?” he asks, his voice shrill. “What d’you want?”

Sherlock sighs theatrically, but doesn’t lower the gun. “Don’t bother with pleasantries, you know exactly what we—”

“You’re—you’re that detective, aren’t you?” the man asks, cutting across Sherlock, who at this point is looking mildly irritated by the whole affair. “I’m sorry?”

“The hat detective. What’s-his-name—Sherlock Holmes! That’s you, innit?”

“Congratulations, you’re an idiot,” Sherlock says, deadpan. “Now hand us the drugs, we know you have them.”

His eyes dart between John and Sherlock nervously. “No, I don’t.”

“The half-full needle hidden in your sleeve, the traces of powder lining the insides of your nostrils that you haven’t bothered wiping off and the over-dilation of your pupils, along with the folds on the left side of your trousers and the distinctive and telling knotting of your shoelaces, plus the inflection in your voice and the position of your right foot all suggest that you do.” He holds out his other hand impatiently. “Now play nice and hand them over, I’m tired of this already and I need a cup of tea, it’s bloody cold out.”

The man promptly turns tail and flees. 

“Bugger,” Sherlock says, then takes off after him. 

“Damn it,” John says, then follows.

The man is probably used to people chasing him, because he’s quick, and he’s ducking into alleys and leaping down hidden sets of staircases as if he does it every day. Sherlock and John aren’t far behind, Sherlock still gripping John’s gun in his right hand as the pair of them give chase. The man is relentless, apparently not losing breath as he skids around a corner and vanishes from sight. 

“We should… call… the police,” John pants as they tear after him, spotting him racing down an alley to their right. They plunge down it, John’s eyes adjusting to the darkness quickly enough for him to avoid colliding with a hefty rubbish bin sitting in his way. He leaps over it, not breaking his pace. 

“Already did,” Sherlock calls back over his shoulder where he’s running a step and a half ahead of John. “They should be on their way.”

“On… their way… where?”

But Sherlock doesn’t reply as they keep running, and another few minutes of chasing goes by before John begins to notice.

They’re moving towards Baker Street.

The man they’re chasing is gravitating towards it—and he appears to have no choice. Every intersection, every street, every traffic signal, is timed just so that he has to turn left instead of right, or go straight instead of going left. And Sherlock and John are just close enough behind him that he has no choice but to go with the flow, to take the very first option he sees. And Sherlock is veering to his left to force him to go right, putting on apparently random occasional bursts of speed at every turn and opportunity. 

He’s _herding_ him. 

And the man is doing exactly what Sherlock wants.

John only has a few seconds to marvel at the impossible, impeccable genius of it all when they burst out of an alley that places them exactly opposite 221B—and directly into the path of three police cars. 

The man stumbles to a halt, the flashing blue, white and red of the police lights bathing him in their stark and ghostly glow. Sherlock stops abruptly at the mouth of the alleyway, just out of sight of the police and the man they’re arresting, making John crash into him from behind. 

He turns fluidly, clicking the safety of the gun on and sliding it into the waistline of the back of his trousers, pulling his jacket down over it. For the second time that night he steadies John, this time with both his hands on his shoulders, face still impassive except for the fact that he’s out of breath. 

“That… that was… brilliant,” John wheezes. “You… you knew all the lights, all the turns and where he’d go, it was…”

“It was probability,” Sherlock says, and while the words are dismissive John can see the tiniest of smiles on his face. His hands are still on John’s shoulders. “Probability and knowing the streets, the traffic schedules, the direction of the majority of the pedestrians. Just the question of which way he _could_ go, not the way he would.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t brilliant.”

He looks down at John, still a bit out of breath. He has that odd look of wonder on his face, that slight widening of his eyes and the parting of his lips, that little thing that tells John he’s still not quite used to being appreciated instead of being scorned. 

It’s still there, that high. That thrill, the adrenaline that sings through his veins after a chase, that feeling of utter invincibility. It’s still coursing through his veins, and it’s coursing through Sherlock’s, too. It seems to connect them, a live wire stretched between them that sparks and crackles and pops with energy and tension and something else, something that for some reason takes his mind back to that cramped little alleyway and feeling Sherlock’s heart beating against his shoulder and feeling his breath at his ear. Sherlock, there with him. Close. Too close. And even too close isn’t enough suddenly, he wants… more. He wants closer.

He’s not quite sure if he leans up or if Sherlock leans down—maybe it’s both—but a second later Sherlock’s fingers tighten bruisingly on his shoulders and John’s fingers are gripping the back of his coat and one or either or both of them step forward, tautening that wire, closing the distance—and then they’re kissing. 

It’s as electrifying as the chase, as intoxicating as the high that follows. No— _more_. Sherlock’s lips against his are impossibly soft but the kiss couldn’t be more different, it’s breathless and thrilling and it’s adrenaline, and there are lights flashing behind his eyes, except these aren’t the cheesy imaginary romantic ones, they’re only the police car lights from the street. It just makes it so much more real, so much more tangible. He’s kissing Sherlock, Sherlock is kissing him, in an alleyway opposite Baker Street and they’ve just caught the police a drug smuggler. Nothing else matters.

They break apart, both of them pulling back at the exact same time. They stare at each other for one second, two, three, four—and then they both step back in unison, Sherlock’s hands falling away from John’s shoulders and John’s fingers unclenching from the back of Sherlock’s coat. 

Something passes unsaid between them as they stare at each other, a moment of understanding. This will pass unmentioned. It’s a result of that overdose of adrenaline, the sudden blinding rush of everything happening at once. It was an accident. A really, really amazing and wonderful accident, but a temporary one. A brief madness. That’s all this is. And it won’t happen again. 

Sherlock turns and walks briskly into the flurry of activity that waits outside the alley, and after a beat John follows, head spinning and mind whirling and full of thoughts, yet somehow totally and completely empty at the same time. No, he thinks distantly. No, it won’t ever happen again. 

Of course, as usual, John Watson has no idea how wrong he is. 

**2.**

“John, pass me that jar.”

He looks up from where he’s reading the newspaper, glancing over at Sherlock sitting at his apparatus across the room, peering into his microscope unblinkingly. 

He’s pointing at the jar sitting on the table two feet away from him.

John scowls at him, even though he knows he isn’t looking. “It’s right there, Sherlock, get the damn jar yourself.”

“Mmm… can’t reach it.”

“Well, bully for you, then, isn’t it? I’m not getting it.”

He goes back to his newspaper, and surprisingly enough, Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

Five minutes or so pass by. Just as John is settling back into the article he’d been reading about a scandal at a cabbage growing competition in Bristol:

“John, pass me that jar.”

“For God’s sake—no, I will not.” He lowers the paper, exasperated. “Sherlock, it is _right there_.”

“I’m busy, John.”

“Well, so am I.”

Sherlock finally looks up from his microscope, blinking over at John across the flat. “Doing what?”

He shakes the newspaper, making its pages rustle loudly. “Reading the paper.”

“Why would you waste your time reading the news, John, it does nothing to increase your awareness of the way of the world, it only fills you with rubbish that stupid journalists who think of nothing but money all day ply you with so that you’ll become just another ignorant zombie like everybody else in the world, caring about nothing else but the lives of others and the flimsy materialism of your own pathetic lives. Making you part ways with your own mind and intellect, drastically lowering it in fact, training you not to think.”

John shrugs and lifts the paper to his eye again to continue reading about cabbage growing competition scams, unfazed. “I want to stay informed.”

“Oh, of what, that supermodel’s underwear size and that actor’s diet and that other actor’s workout routine? Please.” He holds out his hand expectantly. “The jar, John.”

“No.”

“For the love of—”

He’s conveniently interrupted by the door opening and a cheerful Mrs. Hudson holding a tea tray, wearing an apron and a smile as she chirps out a good morning. “It’s nice and sunny today, isn’t it?” she asks happily, throwing open the curtains in a billowing cloud of dust. Sherlock hisses like an angry cat as a thick bar of sunlight slants directly onto him, illuminating that side of the room. “There, now it’s bright!” she says, smiling indulgently at a scowling Sherlock. 

“There you are, Sherlock dear.” She places a cup and saucer beside him and he snatches it immediately, taking a gulp of the scalding tea inside, still scowling. “Two sugars, just the way you like it.”

He grumbles unintelligibly. 

She smiles knowingly at John, who smiles back. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he says as she hands him a cup. “Really, lovely day today, isn’t it? Don’t you agree, Sherlock?”

“Hooray, the sun is shining and everyone’s happy and the sky is blue, how wonderful.”

“Oh, he’s in one of his moods,” Mrs. Hudson says, waving her hands in his general direction. “What’s got his dressing gown in such a twist, then?”

“You know how he gets sometimes, Mrs. Hudson,” says John, lifting his teacup to his lips and maintaining direct eye contact with Sherlock as he speaks. “Inexplicable bouts of crabbiness. He’ll come round soon, don’t you worry.”

Sherlock glares at him. He smiles blandly back. 

“You know him better than I do, dear.” She pats John’s shoulder with a wink. “Sometimes I think you know him better than he knows himself, our Sherlock.” She gives a tinkling laugh and bustles from the room, saying something about how much of a mess they’ve made of the kitchen again as she goes. 

“That was unnecessary,” Sherlock says with great dignity as the door closes behind Mrs. Hudson’s retreating back. 

“Was it? I thought it was fun.”

“Yes, our definitions of the word ‘fun’ tend to vary.”

“Yeah, because to you fun means a couple of corpses and no immediately discernible reason as to why and how they came to be there.”

“And yours is to waste both our time and your own gray matter, which is a poor choice seeing as you have so little to begin with.”

“Oh, sod off. Go on, back to your microscope.”

Sherlocks huffs but once again focuses on the microscope, fiddling with the dial and squinting. John resumes reading, sipping his tea as he does. 

Almost half an hour goes by, and John has graduated to typing his blog, consulting the notes he’d made on their last case. He’s decided to call this one _The Illustrious Giant_ , since it had involved a rather large man with an even larger reputation and an ego about the size of Buckingham Palace. 

“John?”

He glances up. “Yeah?”

“Would you pass me that jar?”

John closes his eyes, counts till ten, then opens his eyes again. “No, I won’t. Maybe if you ask nicely though, I might consider it.”

He sees Sherlock sigh, then straighten as if steeling himself to do something very, very difficult. He looks at John, his face steadfastly neutral. He stares for fifteen solid seconds, then says, “Please, John?”

 _God, I am whipped,_ John thinks as he automatically stands up, placing his laptop on the table as he trudges grudgingly across the room. Sherlock’s lips are tilted in the smallest of smiles as John picks up the jar (which he tries not to look too closely at but is about seventy-five percent sure is full of toes) and holds it in his hands while making no move to give it to Sherlock.

“The jar, please, John.” He holds out a hand, having gone back to his microscope.

“Asking nicely is only step one.” John shakes the jar, ignoring the sickening squelch of the contents. “You’ll have to do more than say please to convince me.”

Sherlock looks up exasperatedly. “You don’t say a word when I call you to switch the light on when you’re in Scotland but when you’re right here you’re being difficult?”

“Well, seeing as the jar was right beside you, I think we can safely say I’m not the difficult one.”

Sherlock sighs. “My dear John, light of my life and bringer of joy to my days, the only ray of sunshine in this otherwise bleak and terrible and dull world and so conveniently short and slow in every sense of the word to highlight my surplus of the contrary, please do pass me that jar before you begin to regret acting so ridiculously childish.”

John grins. “Bit backhanded, wasn’t that?”

Sherlock goes back to his microscope. “You’ll be wanting a kiss next, I suppose?”

Blissfully ignorant of the quiet edge to Sherlock’s tone, John merely feigns shock. “Dear lord, how did you guess? Must’ve deduced it from the tilt of my eyebrow and the fold of my sock.” He moves forward, placing the jar besides Sherlock’s hand with a loud _thunk_. “There’s your stupid jar,” he says.

He’s just turning away when Sherlock stands. 

He turns back to face him, a snarky comment already rising ready to his lips. But it never passes them, because Sherlock has leaned down and kissed them. Just a light, small peck. Offhanded. Sweet. Affectionate, one could say. Bit awkward. Tastes like tea. 

“Thank you for the jar, John,” he says softly, then turns and sits back down, peering into his microscope as if the last five seconds hadn’t even happened. John just stands there, stunned and shocked and every other word there is to describe surprise. Sherlock doesn’t even look up to acknowledge him, standing there as he is, mouth open and blinking at the wall in utter confusion. 

After what feels like forever he turns and stumbles on shaky legs back to his chair and collapses into it, staring listlessly at his laptop, his lips tingling.

He doesn’t notice Sherlock smiling slightly from across the room.

**3.**

The door bangs open downstairs.

John sighs, checking his watch; it’s well after midnight. He’d been expecting Sherlock earlier, but he still isn’t surprised. He’d been “undercover” somewhere, most likely a drug den, for the last ten or so hours, and had absolutely refused help on John’s part. He had given up asking after a week or so, and that day Sherlock had gone out alone, dressed in that ratty old hoodie of his and a pair of strategically torn jeans, face covered in days’ worth of rough stubble and not having eaten for a few days. 

He hears uneven footsteps on the stairs, and a second later the door to the flat creaks open and Sherlock stumbles inside. John realizes something’s wrong immediately; he’s cross-eyed and wobbly-kneed, his eyes are more black than blue and he’s drenched in sweat, and he smells like a pharmacy. 

_Not_ the good kind.

“Oh, God, Sherlock—” He rises from his chair by the fire and rushes over to the other man, who’s sagging against the wall and breathing heavily. “Dear God, what’s happened to you?”

“Got ’em,” he slurs. “Got ’em, John.”

“Got—got who?” He seizes Sherlock’s arm and drapes it up over his shoulder, propping his limp body up with his own. “The guy you went after, that—that illegal weapon guy?”

“The same.” He wobbles a bit. “Got a spoken confession.” He grins lopsidedly at John, pulling a little packet full of white powder out of his pocket and shaking it triumphantly. 

“That… that’s a packet of cocaine, Sherlock.”

“What?” He frowns at the packet, squinting at it. “Oh. No, the recording chip is hidden inside the powder.” He smiles beatifically at John. “Lestrade can round them up first thing tomorrow.”

“All right, now I think it’s time for bed,” says John, hefting him upright. “Come on.”

Sherlock doesn’t complain (much) as John half-carries, half-supports him to his bedroom, then deposits him unceremoniously onto the bed. Sherlock hums absentmindedly and leans back, bracing his hands on the mattress as John kneels in front of him to tug his shoes and socks off. He’s untying his right shoe when Sherlock starts to swing his legs in tandem with the tuneless song he’s humming, nearly kicking John in the face.

“Sherlock, stay still.” He grabs Sherlock’s ankle, keeping him steady as he finally tugs his last sock off. He stands, taking hold of Sherlock’s shoulders and gently easing him down into bed. “Now go to sleep.”

“I couldn’t possibly sleep in my clothes, John,” he says haughtily, raising a supercilious eyebrow. God, even high as a kite Sherlock is still a pompous entitled arsehole. “Fetch my dressing gown, would you, I’ve left it by the mantle.”

“Fine, but once I get it you have to go to bed, all right?”

“Whatever you say, Doctor—Soldier—whatever you are these days.” He gives a mock-salute, shucking off his jacket as John leaves the room, shaking his head and wondering why on earth he puts up with this man.

He plucks Sherlock’s dressing gown from where it’s draped over the armchair, getting the lights and dousing the fire as he moves back to Sherlock’s bedroom. “Mrs. Hudson left out a couple of sandwiches if you’re hungry, they’re in the kitchen,” he says as he pushes the door open and heads inside. “You can take one whenever you—” He chokes, the words dissolving into a strained cough as he walks into the room and beholds an entirely naked Sherlock lying spread-eagled on his bed and staring up at the ceiling with a ditzy sort of smile on his face.

“Oh, God.” He turns away immediately, his face burning. Sherlock’s clothes are strewn everywhere, as if he’d chucked them as far as he could whenever he divested himself of them. “Oh God, you’re naked.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He hears the creak of bedsprings as Sherlock most likely sits up. “It’s actually a remarkably freeing experience, being naked. You should try it sometime.” He hears footsteps, and a moment later Sherlock steps into his vision, looking vacant and vaguely curious. “What are you looking at?”

“Not you, and definitely not your…” He coughs, turning his head and looking fixatedly at the lamp on the table to his left. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, put this on,” he says weakly, thrusting the dressing gown in his general direction. He feels Sherlock take it from him, and a few seconds later he chances a peek—and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Sherlock wrapped in the dressing gown, tying the sash around his waist. 

“Good. Now, bed.” He steers Sherlock towards the bed, pushing him down onto it and pulling the blankets up as Sherlock curls up on his side like a child, tucking his legs under him and blinking out at John as he settles the blankets over his shoulders and tucks him in. “There you go.”

He pats Sherlock’s shoulder and turns to leave the room, dousing the lights as he goes. It bathes the room in darkness, and now all he can see are vague shapes scattered around the room. He moves towards the door.

“John?” he hears Sherlock mumble.

“What is it?” He turns at the door, half-open and spilling a single slender stripe of golden light into the room. 

“Come here, I need to tell you something.”

He sighs, then moves back to the bed again, leaning down to hear Sherlock’s sleepy mumble better. “What is it?”

“Closer.”

He leans closer. “Yeah?”

“Closer.”

He kneels by the bed, wishing he could see better in the dark, and puts his face as close to Sherlock’s as he can without touching him. “What?”

He hears a soft mumble. “John…”

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t ask about the… the drugs. You usually badger me after this sort of thing. Am I to expect an interrogation over our tea tomorrow morning?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Your business is yours, Sherlock. I’ve long since learned to stop interfering in it. As long as you’re not dead or very close to it, I can manage not knowing what happened.”

“That’s… hmm. That’s—I don’t know. Nice? I don’t know.”

“All right, now it’s bedtime.” 

He makes to get up, but he looks back down when he feels a hand grip his wrist suddenly, and sees Sherlock’s eyes shining in the dimness, the shadows hugging the angles of his sharp face, all angles and no softness. “Late,” he murmurs. “Stayed up. Waited.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d come home with the self-coordination of a two-year-old. Someone had to stick around to make sure you didn’t collapse on the carpet and choke on your own vomit, and we all know it wasn’t going to be Mrs. Hudson.”

He kneels by the bed again, Sherlock’s fingers still encircling his wrist tightly. Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. He appears to be struggling to say something, and John laughs a little, patting his hand awkwardly, understanding immediately what he’s trying and failing to tell him. “It’s okay. You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

He nods at John, swallowing, and lets go of his wrist. He looks almost small, curled up on the bed like that, like a child that needs protecting. On a sudden, unidentifiable and frankly alarmingly strong impulse John leans down to brush his lips ever so lightly over Sherlock’s cheek. But he misjudges in the dimness of the room, and before he can react his mouth brushes against Sherlock’s lips, a warm, surprised little breath fanning out over his own. 

It’s a startlingly sweet kiss, even though it was an accident. For the life of him John can’t bring himself to pull away and apologize, and he’s emboldened by the fact that Sherlock doesn’t either. Although that might be because he’s been pumped full of drugs. And _John Watson, Molester of Disoriented and Drugged-Out Detectives_ isn’t exactly the title he’d been going for, even if it’s got a good ring to it. He pulls back hastily, wondering if his blush is deep enough for his face to glow in the dark. It certainly feels that way.

He hears a sigh. 

“Night, Sherlock,” he mutters, then promptly turns tail and hightails it out of there, shutting the door behind him. His only solace is that Sherlock probably won’t remember a single thing that happened by tomorrow morning, so he acts like it never happened, and doesn’t even mention it at breakfast the next day. To his utter relief, neither does Sherlock. 

Bit little does he know, Sherlock remembers every single second of it. 

**4.**

“We shouldn’t be here,” John hisses. 

“Shh,” Sherlock hisses back. “You’ll attract the attention of half the guards milling around this place, and we’re not supposed to be here.”

“That’s exactly my point!”

Sherlock sighs and turns to him. “As long as one of us is a convincing liar, we should be fine. We can pretend we lost our way looking for the loo or something.”

“Because someone’s really going to buy that we wandered into someone’s private property looking for a loo.”

“People will believe anything if you’re convincing enough,” Sherlock says dismissively, glancing out of the little corner behind a statue they’ve set up temporary camp behind. The fountain set into it lets out a jet of water that’s tall enough to hide them, and well. “Especially if you make them uncomfortable.”

 _Uncomfortable?_ John thinks, and he’s about to ask Sherlock what the hell he means by that when Sherlock continues speaking, still peeking around the side of the statue. “That’s the thing I love about obnoxiously rich people,” he says. “They have unnecessarily large grounds, and guards get distracted. Leaves plenty of hiding places. And even more places to get a glimpse through their windows…”

“Does Lestrade even know we’re here?” John whispers. “Did you even bother telling him?”

“I rather thought what Gabe doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Greg.”

“I rather thought what Greg doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Great. So now, if we get caught, you’ve made sure we don’t have our only get out of jail free card.” 

“I’ll take care of what happens if we get caught,” says Sherlock, now peering into the windows across the grounds with a pair of binoculars. “Your job is that of the what’s-it-called. The lookman.”

“The lookout,” John corrects him. 

“Hmm. Yes. That.”

John sighs and leans his back against the statue, crossing his arms and tapping his feet against the flawlessly manicured lawn. There’s a companionable silence between them, Sherlock spying on the occupants of the house and John standing guard beside him, glancing up at the sunny sky above them every few seconds. 

“You may want to be careful,” he mutters to Sherlock as he fiddles with the focus dials on the binoculars. “It’s sunny, and if you’re not precise then someone will see the glare off the lenses.” He taps the binoculars. “They’ll be able to see where we are.”

Sherlock only nods in a distracted sort of way, lifting the binoculars to his eyes again. 

Fifteen minutes later John peeks around the statue and sees a guard glancing suspiciously their way. John whips around and has opened his mouth to tell Sherlock to lower the binoculars—too late. He sees the sun hit the lenses, a ray of reflected light forming a beam and projecting a neat circle right on the façade of the house they’d been spying on. He hears shouts, and then footsteps coming directly towards them. 

“Sherlock,” he hisses, tugging on his coat. “There’s guards coming. They’re nearly on top of us, I _told_ you to be careful with the light—”

“Quick,” says Sherlock, stuffing the binoculars into his coat and lifting his hands to muss his hair, “look occupied.”

“Occupied?” He looks around wildly. “With what?”

 _“Me,”_ says Sherlock, and before John has time to react Sherlock grabs him by the collar of his jacket, hauls him forward and kisses him full on the mouth.

John gives a muffled sound against Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock only grips him tighter in response, his other hand coming to rest on John’s back, fingers splayed, five warm lines he can feel even through his jacket. John’s own hands move of their own accord, one reaching up to settle on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other gripping the lapel of his coat for balance. It’s a head-spinningly passionate kiss, and for someone who hates human contact and general attachment, dear _God_ Sherlock is a good kisser. He’s fairly sure there’s a bit of tongue at one point, and he’s oh so aware of the way Sherlock’s hands are wandering, long fingers framing his face as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. 

A distant shout brings him rudely back to reality, and Sherlock finally lets him go, leaving him unsteady on shaky legs and generally a speechless mess. He turns to see the guard that had spotted them earlier, looking incredibly uncomfortable as he crosses his arms. “What’re you doing here?”

“God, are we not allowed to be?” Sherlock asks in faux surprise, looking at John with wide eyes that scream _play along_. “We didn’t know, did we, John?”

“Uh, no,” John manages to get out. “Thought we were being discreet…”

“Well, this is private property,” the guard says, still looking as if he’s swallowed a spoonful of salt. “You can’t be here.”

“Well, in that case.” Sherlock smiles brightly at the guard, seizing John’s arm and pulling him away. “We’ll just find somewhere more private, won’t we? Thank you, sir.” He forcefully steers John away towards the gates, the false smile melting off his face the moment they’re out of sight. 

“Public displays of affection usually make people uncomfortable,” he says. “That was bound to work.”

“Yeah,” John says distantly, still reeling. He wonders if that had meant nothing to Sherlock. He isn’t exactly sure how it makes him feel to think it didn’t. It had certainly meant more than it should have to him. This is going to take up all the space in his mind for another month, easy. It’s all part of the job, John thinks. Just part of the job. 

Neither of them mention what happened to anyone after they get back to Baker Street. 

**5.**

It’s all a blur after he hits the water. 

There had been a gun in his face, held by a woman. She’d been a murderer, having killed something like ten people in her quest for—something. He can’t really remember, all he knows is if he isn’t careful her kill count will rise to eleven. All he can think while staring down the barrel of that gun is that it’s always him people use to get at Sherlock. It’s always a gun in his face, an abduction, a threat. 

If you don’t do what we say, we’ll kill Dr. Watson, they always say. 

And Sherlock always manages to turn the tide, to save John and outsmart the people who threaten him. But there’s always a split second of panic that comes before it, the spark of panic that is somehow exactly what his brain needs to move from insanely fast to impossibly fast. He sees it every time, in the flick of his eyes to where John is, the note of desperation in his voice. He tries to hide it, but apparently it’s an open secret among London’s most notorious criminals; if you want Sherlock Holmes, all you have to do is get John Watson. Sherlock Holmes will come. And when he comes, stick a gun in Dr. Watson’s face. Strap a bomb to his chest. Tie him to a chair. Drug him and place him beneath a bonfire about to be lit. Then Sherlock Holmes will do whatever you want. 

This woman decides to forgo the usual gun route, and while calling out a taunt to Sherlock, who’s standing on her other side, hands behind his head, she spins around and slams the end of the gun into John’s head, shoving him over the edge of the bridge they’re standing on and into the icy water below. 

He hears Sherlock shout his name, and it’s the last thing he hears before he goes under. 

The cold is like fire, paralyzing him and extending its icy fingers into his lungs, freezing them. He can’t move, water soaking his clothes and dragging him under. He fights for breath but the cold is like a thousand knives slicing into his skin, all over his body. It bleeds beneath his skin, making him go rigid. He’s still desperately trying to claw his way back to the surface, even though he can’t move. He shuts his eyes, and darkness rises behind them. He isn’t sure if he’s lost consciousness or if he’s just blinking. Though it may be the former, since the darkness is everywhere, a consuming, total darkness that feels oddly final. Maybe he’s dying. It seems likely. 

He opens his eyes as someone drags him back onto dry land, soaking and coughing and colder than he’s ever been in his life. He hears, as if through a badly-tuned radio, someone calling his name. It grows steadily clearer as he regains consciousness, eyes fluttering open and lungs trying desperately to expel the icy river water that he’d sucked into them. 

“John?” the voice calls, loudly—ugh, too loudly. He winces, looking up with difficulty, still spluttering and choking. “Sh-Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes it’s me, John—can you hear me?” Sherlock’s voice asks. 

“Am… am I dead?” John manages, now beginning to shiver uncontrollably. 

He hears a hoarse sort of laugh. “No. No, you’re not. Here.” He feels something warm and dry wrap around his shoulders, something that smells like cologne and 221B Baker Street. Like home. He’s startled at the realization, that his mind associates the flat with home now. Or maybe it isn’t the flat that he considers home, but rather the person he shares it with. 

“The woman?” he asks, teeth chattering. “Did she—”

“Oh, I managed to overpower her after you fell. They always get careless once they think they have the upper hand. Grant took her in.”

“G-Greg.”

“Greg.”

“Your coat,” he realizes belatedly as the warm thing that Sherlock had put around his shoulders. “It’ll get wet.”

“Oh, damn the _coat_ , John.” He feels a hand rubbing his back a bit awkwardly to bring some much-needed heat to his body. “I’ve got loads of coats.”

 _I’ve only got one you_ goes unsaid, but John hears it anyway. He feels something warm that has nothing to do with the coat spread inside his chest, and maybe it’s because he just nearly died, maybe it’s because of what Sherlock said, maybe it’s some mad combination of both, but for some godforsaken reason his waterlogged brain gives an unmistakable, impossible-to-disobey order. _Kiss Sherlock_ , it says firmly. 

So he leans forward and does just that. 

He only has time to savor the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his for about three seconds, because just when Sherlock’s fingers have slid to the back of his neck to steady him and it actually starts to get really good, he blacks out again. 

**+1**

He hears Sherlock’s phone moan. 

It still startles him, still makes him jump and think _No, wait, she’s dead, how can she—_ and then comes the realization, the remembering, the settling back down, the _Oh._ And of course he’d hear it today. Today is—

“—Sherlock’s birthday, so we should have everyone over,” Mrs. Hudson says as she tidies up the kitchen. Sherlock is in the shower, and he’s been inside the bathroom for so long that there’s steam beginning to escape from beneath the door in little curling wisps. “Don’t you think? Just surprise him with a little party.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He’s still thinking about The Woman. “Sounds good.”

“You should call Molly and Detective Inspector Lestrade, and maybe if we’re lucky even Mycroft will be willing to at least show his face, I mean—it’s his little brother’s birthday!”

“Well then again, Mrs. Hudson, he’s done a lot less for a lot more,” John reminds her, mind still elsewhere.

“Oh, that is true, isn’t it?” she sighs. “It’s really a pity.” She takes the tea tray and moves back downstairs, and John glances back at the bathroom. The water is still running. 

He quickly crosses the room and picks Sherlock’s phone up, looking at the message on the screen. 

_Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes._

The water has stopped running. John puts the phone back down, hurrying back to his chair and sitting down, picking up his laptop and pretending to be busy just as the bathroom door opens in a billowing cloud of steam, revealing Sherlock wrapped in a bathrobe. He strides to his bedroom and slams the door behind him, and John relaxes a little. It’s not like there’s any way Sherlock would know John checked his phone, right?

He busies himself typing out their last case, trying to lose himself in the monotonous labor. His mind keeps straying to The Woman, wondering how frequently she texts Sherlock and what she says, how he saved her and why. That’s the biggest question, isn’t it? Why. Why did he save her? Why had she intrigued Sherlock so in the first place? Why does he get that funny look on his face whenever someone mentions her? Why her? Why Irene Adler?

“You read the text, didn’t you.”

John jumps, nearly dropping his laptop at the sudden sound of Sherlock’s voice. He hadn’t even seen him come out of his room, but there he is, holding his phone up, fully dressed, wearing a crisp suit and an amused sort of smile. 

“Uh, what text?” He pretends to type something on his laptop, nervously smashing keys at random. “I haven’t got any recently.”

“John.” He raises an eyebrow. “You read it, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

His little smile widens. “Well. That’s that.” He swipes his thumb on the screen, unmistakably deleting the message. John frowns at his screen, at the tangle of letters he’d typed in his quest to remain inconspicuous. “How often does she text?” he blurts out after a minute. 

“Not very. Why are you so interested, John?” He sits across John, crossing his legs and tenting his fingers beneath his chin. John shrugs innocuously. “Just weird to think she’s alive,” he says, scuffing the ground with the tip of his foot. “After all this time.”

“Exactly. It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?” He still looks faintly amused. “There are more important things to think about than The Woman.”

“Like the fact that it’s your birthday.”

“That isn’t important,” Sherlock says, waving a dismissive hand and standing in one smooth movement. “But I did find an interestingly suspicious suicide case the other day—”

“No,” says John, cutting across Sherlock. “No cases today.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

“My my, the doctor is strangely assertive today.” He glances back at John over his shoulder, brows raised. “I suppose the lot of you have got some sort of surprise planned?”

“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?”

“Hm.” The right corner of his lips flicks up. “I suppose.”

John stands, depositing his laptop onto his chair as he steps up beside Sherlock. “I couldn’t think of what to get you,” he says. “I don’t think you’d really use anything people usually give people for their birthdays, and that’s all you get if you go looking.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Sherlock.”

He quiets down, and John turns to face him, feeling oddly detached from his own body, as if he’s watching himself from a great distance. Sherlock turns as well, looking nervously expectant, as if he doesn’t know if that’s the right expression to be wearing. “Yes, John?” he asks, and his voice is oddly quiet. 

He takes a step forward. “Useless material possessions isn’t really your kind of… thing,” he says, “is it?”

“No.”

Another step. “I reckoned if you were really going to sort of appreciate what I give for a long time, then it’ll be worth it.”

“That’s the general universal idea of a gift, yes.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“Sorry, do go on.”

One final step. “God help me,” John says, then leans up and kisses him. 

To his eternal surprise and beyond eternal relief Sherlock doesn’t push him back, or say no, or say those words that usually make one sick to their stomach, the _I’m sorry, I like you and you’re my friend but I don’t feel this way about you._ There’s none of that. It’s just… Sherlock, Sherlock’s mouth yielding to his own, his hair springing free in adorably rumpled curls when John’s fingers tangle around them, the taste of toothpaste and tea and Baker Street exploding in his mouth and his firm but uncertain arms folding around John’s waist. 

After an age they break apart, and there’s an uncharacteristically goofy smile on Sherlock’s face. “So your birthday gift to me is… you?” he asks, and John kicks his ankle. “Yes, and I expect you’re properly grateful.”

“How could I not be?” He leans down, his breath warm on John’s lips. “I am… the luckiest man alive today.”

John doesn’t bother hiding a smile, finding himself actually looking forward to having everyone over at the flat. Maybe he can even convince Mycroft to show up. Suddenly the prospect doesn’t seem difficult or even remotely repellent anymore. How bad can things be in the world and in the grand scheme of things, if he has Sherlock?

“John?” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“May I kiss you again?”

Really, who is he to say no to that?

**Author's Note:**

> drop me kudos if you liked it and maybe a comment telling me what you think, i'd really appreciate it!!


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